


Pancakes

by npeg



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/npeg/pseuds/npeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Place: Stark’s kitchen.<br/>The Scene: Steve is making pancakes.<br/>The Scenario: Enter Tony. Cue banter over breakfast.</p><p>A one-shot drabble featuring domestic!Steve and shirtless!Tony; implied Stony, but no slash!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> another little drabble that just fell out when i was supposed to be thinking about something else. not sure where this one came from! no slash, just wheels turning in domestic!Steve's head and Tony being his usual wonderful childish gobby self. plus, Tony is with still Pepper at this point.

A t-shirt sails past his shoulder and lands in a crumpled heap besides the stove. Steve flicks the corner away from the ring of heat as it starts to hiss and calls out, chastising,

"Watch it, Tony, you nearly got that in the food."

Behind him, the billionaire's footsteps pad across the kitchen to the fridge, with an accompanying whistle, carefree as always. Steve can hear Tony's smile when he speaks.

"And morning to you too, sunshine. Nice apron."

Steve rubs floury hands across it and reaches for the eggs. The fridge opens and he hears Tony rummaging around.

"Juice is at the back," he says, anticipating Tony's request. He reaches for a whisk, "It's a fresh carton. I stashed it behind the veg so the others wouldn't find it."

"Good call," Tony grins.

Muffled clinking and rustling accompanies his subsequent grumbling, "…bastards always drink my juice…  _my_ juice… and they never actually  _finish_  it, they just leave that pathetic little dribble that isn't quite enough for a mouthful swilling around at the bottom, all pulpy bits and backwash… eurgh… frankly, it's disgusting…" he mutters, as much to himself as to Steve, retrieving the carton from behind a bag of spinach and some dubious-looking broccoli.

Steve swirls a glob of melting butter in the pan on the stove, trying to get an even coat, then returns to whisking the bowlful of pale mixture held in the crook of his arm.

"You want a glass for that?" he asks.

"No, I'm good," Tony says, "I'll drink it as is."

Steve raises an eyebrow that Tony can't see.

"Weren't you just complaining about backwash?" he says over his shoulder, "This some kind of retaliation for the next poor sucker that wants juice?"

He turns to see Tony drinking straight from the carton, just like he said he would. A small stream of orange is leaking out of the corner of his mouth and Steve distractedly watches the liquid course over his chin and drip onto his…

And he has to double-take for a second, nearly dropping the bowl under his arm, because Tony Stark has no shirt on.

Again.

"Every day…" Steve mutters to himself.  _Guess that explains the t-shirt by the stove_.

For some reason he feels like this is a test, Tony being topless. It happens too often not to be. Frankly, it shouldn't even bother him, and yet, oddly, it does. Something niggles at him, at the back of his mind, but he can never put his finger on it long enough to figure out why.

It takes him a second to realise he's staring.

And blushing.

_Why is he blushing?_

Steve snaps his mouth shut, trying to will away the colour in his cheeks, and adjusts his grip on the bowl.

"Tony, do you  _ever_  wear t-shirts in the morning?" he sighs, averting his eyes.

The billionaire holds up one finger to signal him to wait while he drains the last of the juice, then he wipes his forearm across his mouth and chin, smearing orange everywhere. He shakes his head again.

"No to both. First off, it's not retaliation  _per se_  because, as you can see," he wiggles the now-empty carton, " _my_ juice, is all gone. There is no juice to backwash  _in_. This time, I'm not even giving them the  _chance_  to backwash in  _my_  juice."

Tony tosses the carton into the trash and continues, "And second, no, I don't ever wear t-shirts in the morning."

He smiles, chin still wet, "I mean, seriously, why bother? I'm just gonna have to take it off again when I go get in the shower in like, 5 minutes, so y'know, what's the point?"

He pauses.

"Why, this make you uncomfortable?" he asks, tapping the exposed arc reactor as he speaks.

Steve shakes his head, "No, not at all," and adds more flour to the bowl, resuming his whisking, "It's just, uh, y'know, most people wear… clothes…? around other people?"

Tone teasing, he adds, "You're a pretty smart guy, Tony, don't tell me you haven't noticed?"

Tony smiles.  
"Yeah, yeah, wise-ass, but I'm not "most people", am I?"

"Besides," he shrugs, "my roof, my rules. And the first rule is, no t-shirts in the mornings. That goes for you too."

Steve looks up in alarm, only to find Tony smirking at him, hands up.

"Joke, that was a joke, Steve. Don't burst a blood vessel."

Steve scowls at him for just a second, but it melts away when Tony laughs.

"You should wash your face before the juice dries and gets sticky," he says instead, turning back to the stove and cursing when he sees the burnt film of butter on the base of the pan.

"Like I said, shower. Why bother?" Tony answers, padding over to the coffee machine for his first espresso of the day.

Steve sighs in mock exasperation. Tony just grins.

"What're you making?" the billionaire asks over his shoulder as the coffee machine whirs into life. He punches the espresso button, twice to make it double, and just about gets the cup under the nozzle in time as the black liquid comes streaming out.

"Oh, just some pancakes," Steve replies, watching another glob of butter dissolve into golden liquid in the pan, "Nothing special."

"Oooh, got enough for little old me?" Tony asks smiling, palms together in supplication.

Steve raises an eyebrow, "Since when do you eat first thing in the morning?"

Tony grins.

"Uhh, since you're already making pancakes, and I'm here, and I'm hungry, and you don't want me to starve to death, do you? I mean, come on, how many times have you had to drag me back from the brink of starvation because I forgot to eat, huh? Seriously, you and Pepper are the only people keeping me alive. Everyone else conveniently forgets that I need food just like they do… Probably think I can survive on motor oil or something… Which I can't by the way, just so you know…"

The coffee machine beeps at him.

Tony scoops up the tiny espresso cup and blows on its scalding contents before continuing, "In fact, if you  _don't_ feed me, that's like, reckless abandonment or something. Abuse, maybe, whatever. You'd essentially be mistreating me because you'd be neglecting your duties as a sort of, parent, figure, type thing."

Steve barks an incredulous laugh, "What? How is  _that_  a logical conclusion?"

The billionaire shrugs at him, sitting down at the table with his coffee, and replies casually, "Well, clearly  _someone's_  gotta look after me and, y'know, make sure I don't starve myself to death, among other things, and let's face it, you're more than old enough to be my father, so, yeah, go figure."

Steve shakes his head at the bizarre analogy Tony is offering, "Okay, one? I actually knew your father, so no, and two? Let me just repeat that back to you, Tony. If this "parent figure" argument is based on  _who feeds you_ , which is, as you just said,  _only_  me and Pepper, doesn't that make Pepper  _the mother figure_?"

Tony stops with his cup halfway to his lips.

Steve nods, "Yeah. Think about it."

Tony suddenly makes a disgusted face.

"Ew, weird, no, Pepper as my mother figure? No, that's messed up, even for me. Scrap the family scenario, just, oh God, it's freaking me out just thinking about it…"

"You and me both…" Steve agrees.

… _though for an entirely different reason than it should_.

Tony feigns a melodramatic shudder and takes a sip of his coffee. Deeming the liquid just about cool enough not to burn his throat, he drains the cup, and with a satisfied  _aaah_ , turns his attention back to Steve.

"No but seriously, c'mon, you wouldn't be so cruel as to refuse to feed me, now would you?"

Steve exhales in frustration, fully aware that Tony expects him to give in. And he does, with an exasperated sigh.

"Thought not," Tony grins.

"Just shut up and lay the table," Steve sighs, reaching for the eggs, because he's going to need more pancake mix.

"Sure thing, boss," Tony responds, with a mock salute. He gets up from the table and looks around.

"Uh…" he trails off, stood in the middle of the room.

"What?" Steve asks after a minute, cracking an egg and adding more flour.

Tony's head pops up by his shoulder.

"Um, where are the plates?"

Steve stops whisking, and lets out a long, slow sigh.

"Really, Tony? This is  _your_  house, and you don't know where you keep the plates?"

Tony nods, eyes large and full of childish innocence; feigned, of course.

Steve makes a noise and rolls his eyes.

"You are just- seriously? You don't know?"

Tony shrugs, his bed hair sticking up at all sorts of strange angles, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes as he smiles, teasing, playful, messy, childish, endearing… and  _bizarrely intoxicating_.

The look on Tony's face inspires a strange mixture of feelings in the captain, a sudden sort of turmoil.

Steve lets the whisk fall against the side of the bowl and points to a cupboard near the fridge.

"They're in there."

Tony smiles and goes to collect the plates, blissfully unaware of Steve's inner monologue.

Steve hears Tony set the plates down on the table behind him as he pours the first dollop of pancake mix into the pan, watching it sizzle as it makes contact with the hot metal, momentarily lost in thought.

T-shirt-less Tony had been having a rather perplexing effect on him lately. He vaguely wonders when it started, this, this thinking about Tony like… well, like what? Like something, he supposes. Like something not entirely… platonic. Like something, new; something different. Not as a teammate, not as a friend, even. As something further down the increasingly blurry line from friend to, well, to something else… to something more.

His train of thought is interrupted when he notices his pancake is beginning to burn. He absently flips it over and removes it from the pan, pouring more mix for the next.

Behind him, there is a pause.

He hears Tony turn, and feels the billionaire reappear behind him, a block of warmth against his back.

"And what about-"

Without looking up from the pan, before Tony can even finish his sentence, Steve answers, "Second drawer down on my right, by my hip."

Honestly, he wasn't expecting Tony to know where the cutlery was either, if he couldn't even find the plates.

The drawer at his side opens and Tony retrieves two forks and two knives. The billionaire grins up at him, not apologetically, more amusedly actually, and Steve shakes his head and flips another pancake.

Minutes later, he places a steaming pile of them in front of Tony, unable stop the smile that creeps across his face when Tony's eyes light up at the sight of it.

"Full stack,  _yes_ ," Tony mutters and promptly attacks the pile like he hasn't eaten in days, which is entirely possible given his irregular eating habits.

Unsurprisingly, Tony Stark is a very messy eater. Steve turns and puts his own plate on the table.

Tony smiles up at him, crumbs on his lips, and says,

" _God_ , I love you."

A beat of stunned silence follows, Steve's mouth agape.

The captain fumbles clumsily for words and for breath as his heart stutters strangely in his chest, but then Tony interrupts his miniature heart attack, utterly oblivious to it.

"I mean, seriously, these pancakes?  _Divine_.  _Perfect_. My God, when was the last time I had pancakes? Super soldier? Try super cook. Sorry, that was awful. Hey, pass me the syrup would'ya?"

Steve can't form a sentence.

And Tony looks at him.

"…Steve?"

It takes him a moment to understand what's just happened, to process the words, the logical flow of the sentences, and he gropes at his side for the syrup bottle, dazed and uncoordinated as he tries to reconcile what Tony  _actually_  said and  _actually_  meant with what Steve had heard in that one small sentence.

Pieces click into place and realisation hits him like a ton of bricks.

His other hand curls painfully around the pancake-covered spatula as he dumbly retrieves the syrup.

Tony still has his hand out. He wiggles his fingers impatiently, crooking them in a " _give it here_ " motion.

" _Yo_ , Earth to Steve? Give me the bottle.  _Give_. Hey, stop zoning out, buddy, pass me the bottle, pancakes are going cold."

Tony's fingers prise the syrup from his grip and he looks at Steve oddly before flipping the lid and dousing the pile of pancakes in sticky amber liquid.

Steve blinks.

He feels something strangely like panic clench in his chest, and suddenly, he isn't hungry anymore.

"Tony, I'm gonna go grab a, uh, grab a shower," he murmurs slowly, and before Tony can raise a pancake-piled fork to protest, Steve peels off his flour-dusted apron and discards it by the sink.

"Whoa, Cap, don't you want your pancakes?" Tony shouts after him, earning a rushed " _No, you have 'em_ " in response.

As Steve strides out of the room, fingers in his hair and mind still racing, Tony shrugs, fork and eyebrows raised in mild confusion.

"Whadd'I say?"

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> i've had I Want Love by Elton John on repeat for days now; RDJ features in the video, and oh my, the words, the music, it's just heartbreaking gorgeousness wrapped up in one little 4 minute song /sighs. go listen! :)


End file.
